Lost in the Dark
by Keara
Summary: Modern-Day AU, not ATF though. Fourteen-year-old Ezra contemplates a life on the street. Warning: mentions of child abuse, physical and sexual.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimers: I do not own the Magnificent Seven or any of its characters. I am making no money from this._

_Notes: An AU Modern-day universe, not ATF though. Fourteen year old Ezra contemplates a life on the street._

_Warnings: Mentions of Child Abuse, physical and sexual! And sorry, but there is an OC._

* * *

**Lost in the Dark**

**Part One**

* * *

Ezra stood shivering under the awning of a store. It was closed, abandoned, and looked as if it had been for a good long while. The boards nailed across the broken windows were weathered with age. There were cracks and holes in the awning itself, but it was better than nothing as he huddled in the shadows, trying to stay out of the chill night and even colder rain that pattered down from the evening sky.

He stood there, watching the street and wondering how things had gotten so bad that he was contemplating selling himself like one of those women on the street corner. He was hungry, that's why, and he wanted someplace dry to stay for the night instead of the filthy alley he'd been forced to sleep in last night. At times like these he usually only had to play a couple hands of poker and he'd have enough for a modest dinner and a stay in a moderately nice motel. But not this time. He'd been banned from the table by the cretin who ran the illegal establishment Ezra had most recently been attending. It was his own fault really. He had gotten cocky and had won too much. He should have known better than that. No grown man liked to be shown up by a kid who didn't even have a learner's permit to drive yet.

Ezra winced, remembering the outcome. His wrist was hurting, his ribs flaring whenever he breathed. He didn't know if anything was broken, but it surely did hurt. As did the myriad of bumps and bruises he'd gotten from the goons who's egos had been ruffled by a far more talented player than themselves. They could have at least left him with a couple of dollars, something, instead of pulling every last dime from his pockets. They'd even found the twenty he kept in the lining of his jacket for emergencies. They'd kept the jacket, too.

His stomach rumbled, reminding him of why he was standing here, staring out at the street corner and contemplating an option that scared the wits out of him. He'd known boys who sold themselves. A few of them were regular patrons of the poker tables he'd been to in the past. The work was dangerous, but some of them made good money. He ignored the voice in his head that reminded him of the bruises he'd seen on some of those boys, of the haunted pained look in their eyes.

He worried at his lower lip with his teeth, then winced a he nibbled a little too hard and set one of the splits in his lower lip to bleeding again. It had gotten colder as day turned to night and he began to shiver as the last remaining daylight fled. The shivering continued as night set in. He turned, looking over his shoulder at the abandoned store. Maybe he could sleep in there. He was thin enough to slip in through the slats. The lock on the door would be easy enough to pick if he found a sliver of metal to use. It would be dry at least, better than sleeping in an alley at any rate. However, there was still his stomach to consider. He was just so hungry.

* * *

Cinnamon was a longtime veteran of her chosen profession. At twenty-six, she was downright old compared to others who worked the street corners. Each girl seemed to get younger and younger when they started, some less willingly than others. She'd gotten used to seeing new faces. But every one of them knew better than to try and hustle on her block without permission. She'd worked too long and hard to put up with other girls sneaking onto her turf, trying to steal away her customers. Whether with a word of warning, or a solid right cross, they soon learned to keep away. She wouldn't tolerate people stealing from her.

She was a bitch, but she could be nice when she wanted to be. She'd helped a few girls on their first nights, offered up advice when needed. There were even a couple of girls working with her most nights, girls she'd made friends with. They watched each other's backs, tried to keep each other safe. After all, there was no one else who would do it for them.

That was how she'd recognized the look on that boy's face when she'd seen it. It was a slow night, the rain keeping most of the business away. Hell, it wasn't doing much for the state of her hair, but her make-up was holding up well enough. She had been checking her face in a mirror when she'd first noticed him.

He was hidden in the shadows of what had so long ago been a shoe store. She couldn't see him well, hidden away as he was, but she knew that he was there, the air in his lungs puffing out in a cloud of vapor with each exhale. He was just standing there, watching her and the few other girls who had braved the bad weather. When the streetlights kicked on, she'd gotten a better view of him before he'd disappeared back into the shadows again. He was hurt, that much was plainly obvious by the bruises and the blood on his face and clothes. There was fear in his eyes, terror as he flicked his gaze from Cinnamon to the cars passing by. He was contemplating joining her, she realized. It broke her heart seeing someone so young willing to sell their body.

The rain picked up.

Cinnamon ducked under the overhang of the diner. The people running it were nice enough. They let her and the other girls hang around outside their place, didn't make a fuss or turn none of them away when they went in to eat or to use their restrooms when they needed to.

Turning toward the shadows of the shoe store, she decided she couldn't just sit by and let the boy whore himself. Most people wouldn't give a damn, but she did. No kid, boy or girl, should think this life was an option.

"You're not going to get much business from there," she said, loud enough to be heard over the din of the rain. She turned, smiling warmly into the darkness. "Why don't you come on out? It won't hurt to get to know each other, seeing as how you want to work on my corner."

There was silence for a good long while. For a moment Cinnamon thought for sure that the boy had run for it. Then she heard a small, but clear voice speak up. "I'm sorry, Ma'am, I was unaware of the etiquette. May I inquire if I was to seek permission before offering up my services to the public?" His accent was distinctly southern and smooth as silk, and he had such a way with words for someone so young. He stepped out from under the awning and darted over to the diner, but stayed just out of reach, his vibrant eyes fearful and wary.

"Come on," she invited, smiling. "No sense in standing out there in the rain when there's plenty of room under here." She gestured to the overhang above her head.

He hesitated, but soon joined her. He was shivering badly and soaked through to the bone. Cinnamon could see that despite the chill weather, he wasn't wearing a coat. And she was right about him being hurt. His face was bruised, a cut decorated his cheekbone and his lips were split in three places, one on top and two in the bottom. The knuckles on his left hand were raw and bloody, the fingers discolored, as was his right wrist which had also swelled quite a bit. And the way he held his arm around his middle told of some injury to his ribs.

Cinnamon decided not to call any attention to his injuries. She was sure that the first mention of a hospital or the clinic, even a doctor, would make the boy run for it. He was young, probably barely in his teens if that old at all, but it was obvious that he'd seen some hardship in his life. It wasn't the injuries that told her that, but the look in his eyes. There was something in his eyes that said he was too familiar with the cruel side of human nature.

"I'm Cinnamon," she greeted, trying for a casual tone. "But you can call me Cindy. What's your name?"

"Ez-Ezra," he said, curling his arms around himself a little tighter. "Was I supposed to ask for permission Miss Cindy? I didn't mean to cause trouble."

Cinnamon brushed away his worries. "Oh, it's no trouble. It's not as if we're likely to be after the same clients, is it?" She turned her head to the sky, seeing a flash of lightning streak the darkness. "And tonight, I doubt if either of us will be earning much." She looked over to the boy, just in time to catch a faint sense of hopelessness flicker in his gem-like eyes. "Say, you have a place to stay the night? I have a lumpy old couch that might be comfortable enough and if the weather's better tomorrow, I can introduce you to a few men I know might be eager to meet you." To be honest, she did know of a few men like that, but she sure as hell wasn't going to be introducing Ezra to any of them. Oh no, she had a better idea. She'd just have to be careful. One wrong step and Ezra would be running out on her. And how would she help him then?

Ezra took a step back, his face paling. "I don't think ... I don't want to inconvenience you."

She couldn't tell if he was more afraid of her, or of the prospect of actually renting his body out to strange men. "It's not an inconvenience. I help out all the new talent," she said, smiling again. It wasn't a lie. She did help out the new girls when they came around. "You can ask, if you'd like." She pointed across the street to a couple of girls who were huddled together under an umbrella. "The redhead. She's one of mine."

Ezra shook his head. "No, no that's all right."

Cinnamon nudged his shoulder lightly and didn't miss his flinch from the minor contact. "Come on, let's grab something to eat. I don't know about you, but I'm starved. And Mike makes the best meatloaf." She gestured behind her to the diner.

"I don't have any money," Ezra said.

"I'll pay," she replied. Before he could object, she added. "And don't think it's charity. You can always pay me back for it later."

Ezra nodded and followed her into the diner.

Over the satisfying meal, Cinnamon tried to coax him into divulging more information about himself. But she didn't make much progress. She got a last name, 'Standish,' and the fact that he'd run away from an uncle's house. However, he wouldn't say why, or where his parents were, if he even had parents. And he wouldn't tell her how he'd gotten hurt. She didn't push him though; she didn't want to scare him off.

It took some effort to get him to come with her back to her place. But the lure of a warm place to sleep on a cold wet night won out over his initial objections. Her apartment was small, but it was close-by.

"The bathroom's through there if you want to get washed up," she offered. "The towels are in the cupboard. I'll see if I can find you something to wear to bed. You'll get sick if you stay in them wet things."

Ezra disappeared into the bathroom and Cinnamon went off to her bedroom. It took her a few minutes of searching to find a t-shirt that wasn't too effeminate. Unfortunately for Ezra, she was actually quite fond of the color pink and pale pastel colors that she didn't think that the boy would like. The gray one would do well enough, even if it did have the phrase, 'Go Ahead Bask In My Cuteness,' emblazoned across the front of it. She left it hanging on the doorknob and told him it was there, then retreated to her kitchen to find the first-aid kit she had in there.

When Ezra came out a few minutes later, he gently tried to tell her than he was fine. She nearly cried at the sight of him. He was small and waif-thin, the shirt he wore hanging down near to his knees. Now that he was cleaned up, the bruises and cuts seemed to stand out in stark contrast to his pale skin.

She dug around in her kit and brought out a rolled up ace bandage. "At least let me wrap your wrist for you," she said.

With obvious reluctance, Ezra inclined his head and carefully moved to stand in front of her. She tenderly took hold of his injured limb. Then she went and found a pillow and a blanket and sent him off to bed, wishing she could offer more than a lumpy sofa for him to sleep on. She didn't think he'd accept the offer of her bed.

* * *

Cinnamon slept until late afternoon. She sat up with a start, worried that her guest had disappeared in the night. She hurried from her bed and out into the living room, breathing a sigh of relief when she found Ezra still asleep on her couch. Relieved, she gave in to her impulse and ran the very tips of her fingers through his hair. He hummed in his sleep, nudging up against the faint contact. The action gripped Cinnamon's heart and rallied her conviction to help the boy.

Breakfast was quickly made. Toast and coffee. She didn't have anything else and frankly, she wasn't the best cook in the world. Lunch would be better. She had a couple frozen pizzas she could cook up. And they could have dinner at the diner again.

They spent the day companionably. Ezra was witty and intelligent. He provided a refreshingly good conversation. The day passed quickly. And soon it was time to get ready for work.

She sent Ezra to get dressed in the clothes he'd worn yesterday - dry now after a day of hanging over her shower rod - while she went into her bedroom. Before she did anything else, she made a quick phone call, and hoped her gamble would pay off.

* * *

It was half-past nine when the beat up old pick-up drew up to the curb. Ezra's stomach was churning. He'd watched Cinnamon all night. She'd gone with a couple of men already, but never before extracting a promise out of Ezra not to go off with anyone while she was gone. He'd readily agreed, not really all that keen to go with anyone at all, let alone a complete stranger. Cinnamon had assured him that she had picked someone for him already, someone who would take care of him. The thought still left him feeling sick though. He didn't want to do this. But he needed money, not just for himself now but because he needed to repay Cinnamon back for all of her kindness. She'd bought him meals, shared her home with him. The least he could do was offer up a monetary recompense.

Cinnamon strolled over to the cab of the truck with a sway to her hips. She was smiling as she greeted the man inside. Ezra couldn't hear what was being said, but he did notice that Cinnamon looked over at him a couple times during the conversation. Eventually, she called Ezra over.

At first, Ezra had trouble convincing his feet to move. He took a breath, trying to calm his racing heart and forced himself forward. Cinnamon reached out and cupped his face in her hands, a sad smile on her face. "You go on now, Ezra. He'll take good care of you," she said.

"All right," he croaked, heart pounding in his throat. "I'll see you later?"

She sniffed and smiled shakily. "Of course." She pulled him into a hug.

When she let go, he saw tears on her cheeks. Why was she crying? He didn't understand. There was no time to think on it though, as Cinnamon opened the truck door for him and helped him to clamor up onto the seat. He barely had the time to buckle his seat-belt before the truck began to move.

Surreptitiously, Ezra glanced to the man driving the truck. It was dark, but the streetlights added some illumination whenever they passed under one. In the flashes, Ezra could make out dark hair and a thick mustache. The man was big, not fat but well-muscled. Ezra tucked himself close to the door, wary of the stranger even with Cinnamon's approval of him.

Not surprisingly, they pulled over into an empty lot. The man turned on the cab light and looked over at Ezra. "So, your name's Ezra, is it?" he asked, reaching out and clamping a large hand on Ezra's shoulder.

Ezra couldn't stop the shivers that began to wrack his body. "Yes, sir," he replied. He unfastened his seat-belt and scuttled closer, fingers reaching out toward the man's jeans.

His fingers had barely curled around the denim and unfastened the button before they were grasped by much larger hands. "Now hold on there, kid," the man said, holding Ezra's hand in a careful grip. "I'm guessing Cinnamon didn't tell you much about me, did she?"

Ezra's eyes were wide, wondering just what horrors this man had in store for him. "No, sir. She said you would take care of me. D-Do you want to use my mouth? Or-"

"No!" the man snapped, making Ezra flinch away. Blue eyes sparkled in the dim light, but they weren't full of anger. "Cinnamon said I'd take care of you, because that's what I'll do." He reached into his pocket and pulled out something that made Ezra's eyes widen.

It was a detective's badge.

* * *

**To Be Continued ...**


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimers: I do not own the Magnificent Seven or any of its characters. I am making no money from this._

_Notes: An AU Modern-day universe, not ATF though. Fourteen year old Ezra contemplates a life on the street._

_Warnings: Mentions of Child Abuse, physical and sexual! And sorry, but there is an OC._

* * *

**Lost in the Dark**

**Part Two**

* * *

A cop! How could Cinnamon betray him like this? He should have known better than to trust anyone. Mother always told him never to trust anyone but yourself. People looked out for themselves. They'd only let you down in the end.

Ezra tried to pull away, but the stranger still had a good grip on him with his one hand. "Let me go!" Ezra yelled, jerking back. He stopped, crying out in pain as his ribs protested vehemently.

"Woah, now," the man said, dropping his badge to grab Ezra's shoulder. "I'm not going to hurt you none. Just calm down and let's have us a little talk."

Ezra nodded, although that was the last thing he wanted to do. He didn't see that he had much choice though. With the way his ribs ached, he wouldn't be running very far.

Slowly, as if expecting him to run, the man released his hold on Ezra. He sat back, watching the boy. "Now then, my name is Buck Wilmington. Your name is Ezra?"

"Yes, sir," Ezra replied, heart in his throat. What was going to happen to him now? "Ezra Standish. Are you going to arrest me, Detective Wilmington?" He knew that prostitution was illegal. But then, why hadn't Cinnamon been arrested? Maybe Cinnamon had handed him over to keep herself out of trouble.

"You can call me Buck. And no, I'm not going to arrest you, Ezra. Cinnamon called me, told me you needed some help. I used to work the Vice squad a couple years back and helped her out of a dangerous situation. She knows she can always come to me when she needs me."

Ezra kept quiet, trying to think of a way out of this. But nothing would come to mind. He was just too scared to think straight. His mother wouldn't be pleased that he'd forgotten all her teachings in the face of fear.

Buck took a breath and let it out slowly. "So, you want to tell me who hurt you and why you think selling yourself is any sort of answer to your problems?"

Ezra shrugged, ducking his head low. "It's not something I've never done before," he muttered as bitter tears fell hotly down his face. "Only now I'll get paid for it." He could still feel Uncle Randall's hands around his neck, in his hair, holding his head still as he used his mouth for his own purposes. The taste of him, the smell, the sound of his grunts, every one of his senses had been assailed.

Buck scrubbed a hand through his hair. "You want to tell me who did it?"

Ezra shook his head. He pulled his knees up, burying his face against them. He didn't want to talk. He wanted it all to go away.

"What about your age? How old are you?"

Again, Ezra said nothing.

Buck hummed thoughtfully. "Well, you look young to me. Twelve, I'd say."

"I'm fourteen!" Ezra snapped angrily.

There was a small, sad smile on Buck's face. "Well, Ezra, that's still too young to be out on the streets by yourself." He reached out, then thought better of it and let his hand drop on the seat beside Ezra. "I know a place I can take you, a safe place. We can get those hurts looked at, get you a warm meal and a comfortable bed. What do you think?"

Whimpering, Ezra only nodded. He didn't want to go anywhere with the detective. He just wanted this all to be over. And he told himself, he could always run away as soon as he got the chance. Maybe he could find someplace new, someplace where he was wanted, where he belonged. He doubted it though. No one wanted him.

* * *

Buck pulled his truck into the familiar parking lot and cut off the engine. He cast a look over to the boy and frowned at the resignation on that young face. You'd think he was being thrown to the wolves with the way he was acting.

The kid didn't put up any objection when Buck urged him out of the truck. He flinched when Buck clasped a hand on his shoulder and led him into the building. If Buck trusted him not to run at the first chance, he wouldn't have touched him. Ezra had been through enough already, more than enough.

Normally, the clinic would be closed at this late hour. However, Buck was friends with the man who ran the place. He'd called ahead to make sure Nathan would be here. At any rate, he'd figured this small medical clinic would be better than a hospital, less stressful to the boy. And he would still get the care he needed.

Nathan met them at the front desk. Josiah's large frame was folded into one of the visitor's chairs. The social worker stood up as soon as Buck led the boy in. Buck made introductions.

"Ezra, this is Nathan Jackson. He's a doctor here at the clinic and he'll be giving you a look-over if you don't mind. And this here is Josiah Sanchez. He's a social worker. He's here to make sure you get taken care of."

"I see," Ezra murmured. He looked up at Buck, a sense of hopelessness in his eyes.

Buck wondered what was going on in the boy's mind. He stood back and watched as Nathan led Ezra away to the examination rooms, the tall Doctor talking gently to him the whole time. The look he'd seen in those green eyes haunted him. He couldn't help but feel as if they were begging him for something, maybe for an end to this whole mess. And God help him if he didn't want to help that boy.

"Josiah," Buck said as soon as the two were out of sight, "I've got this crazy idea."

* * *

Ezra lay on his side, staring at the IV that the doctor had stuck into his arm. He didn't want to be here. He wanted to go home. The only problem was, he didn't have a home to go to. As soon as Doctor Jackson released him, Mr. Sanchez would deliver him to a children's home, or maybe even a temporary foster home if he could manage one. But that was only if he was lucky. If he wasn't, then he'd wind up back in Uncle Randall's care. He shivered, and tugged the flimsy blanket higher up on his shoulder. He had run away from the man for a reason.

Detective Wilmington dropped down into the seat beside his bed and smiled at him. "How are you doing there, Ezra?"

"I'm sure Doctor Jackson has told you," Ezra grumbled, turning his attention to the tubing taped down along his arm.

Bruised ribs, his right wrist sprained; the worst of his injuries was a pair of broken fingers on his left hand and the fracture to his cheekbone. All of which had been caused by the men objecting to his talents at poker. But there were other injuries, other bruises that had been left behind by Uncle Randall's unwelcome touches. He shivered, feeling dirty, and drew his knees up closer to himself.

"Yeah, I do know," the detective admitted. "But that ain't what I asked ya."

"I'm doing as well as can be expected, Detective Wilmington. When is Mr. Sanchez going to take custody of me?"

"Now, I told you, you can call me Buck," the man said, scooting his chair closer. "And you won't be going with Josiah."

"I won't?" Ezra squeaked. Was Uncle Randall here? He hadn't told anyone about him, but they could have tracked him down. Did he have to go back with him? "I don't want to go with my uncle, Mr. Buck!" He sat up quickly and looked around, terrified that his Uncle was coming up behind him.

Buck was out of his seat in an instant, his hands resting on Ezra's shoulders. "Is he the one that hurt you?" Buck asked, stroking soothing hands down his arms.

Ezra nodded quickly, his heart racing. "He ... He ... He held me down and I didn't want him to. But he said there was only one good use for my smart little mouth. And he's so much bigger than me. When he was gone I ran away and I tried to get some money, but the men at the poker game said I'd cheated. But I never cheat, I don't have to. But they wouldn't believe me, so they hit me. Please, don't make me go back with Uncle Randall!"

"It's okay. It's okay," Buck soothed. "He ain't here. And he'll never set his hands on you again." His lips curled in a faint forced smile. "But what I meant when I said Josiah isn't going to take you, is that you're coming home with me. If you want to. It took a lot of phone calls and a few favors, but me and Josiah managed to get you placed in my care, at least for now. If there's anyone else you'd rather go with, you tell me and I'll see to it."

Ezra shook his head. He didn't understand why the detective would be saying this, but there was a faint hope blossoming somewhere deep inside. "You? I get to go home with you? You want me to?"

Buck nodded. He reached up and ran a hand lightly through Ezra's hair. "I know you don't have no reason to trust me yet, but I won't let anyone hurt you, Ezra, you have my word on that."

"Okay," Ezra replied, his voice soft. "I could try living with you, I suppose." He didn't understand. Why would the detective want him? He wasn't of any use to anyone? Uncle Randall had said so often enough.

"Great! As soon as Nathan releases you, I'll take you home. For now, why don't you get some rest? It's late and you should be sleeping." He urged Ezra to lie down again.

Ezra closed his eyes and was silent for a while. Buck probably thought he was asleep, but then Ezra spoke. "Do you think we could visit Cinnamon?" he asked timidly, certain that his request would be refused. "I think I'd like to thank her."

Buck grinned. "We can do that, Ezra. I think she'd like it." He placed his hand on Ezra's forearm, near his elbow and slowly ran his thumb back and forth. The gentle contact helped to lure Ezra into sleep.

For the first time in a good long while, Ezra had no fear of the darkness that enveloped him in its embrace. He only hoped that he wouldn't wake to find that everything had been a cruel dream.

* * *

**The End**

* * *

_I know, the ending is rather abrupt. But I wanted this to be short. I've left it wide open, so if I want to, I can continue it later._


End file.
